


does he cry through broken sentences

by scabsthekid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coming of Age, Denial of Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M, blissfully unaware England, hopelessly besotted America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scabsthekid/pseuds/scabsthekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred was secretly in love with him then, and he's secretly in love with him now. Some things just never change-key word being some. A look into Alfred coming to terms with his feelings for Arthur, and the consequences thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	does he cry through broken sentences

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly, I've just wanted to start writing again and this ship always sails in my heart so I thought I'd give it a go. Please accept my trash. 
> 
> [Also, if you are interested, we can chill here:
> 
> addinfinitumtemporarily.tumblr.com 
> 
> I love talking to and fangirling with people, plus I need more friends. :) (and if you like this, I might be willing to take writing/fanfic requests because I really need to get to writing things, ugh]

**does he cry through broken sentences**

 

_“Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head?_

_And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall?_

_Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes?_

_Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you._

_Oh, does he know that place below your neck is your favorite to be touched_

_And_ **_does he cry through broken sentences_ ** _like I love you far too much?”_

\-- “The Calendar Hung Itself…”; Bright Eyes

 

\------------------------------------------

 

**then**

 

He hesitates at his door every morning, nervously nursing a hot cup of tea.

Last week, he’d come in unannounced and Arthur had been hardly decent, trousers barely on, sandy blonde hair tousled, back laden with scars and dark marks from wars present and past. The image simply refused to leave Alfred’s mind. He was filled with the irrational desire to help Arthur dress and get ready for the day, to run his long fingers across the many scars and ask about his life before the new land, and…

Beyond that, the desires grew hardly appropriate for a mere colony. Whatever the case, Alfred had taken to making Arthur tea in the mornings to make up for his brash entrance.

He knocks. “Britain?”

Sleepy mumbling. Sheets moving. Creaking floorboards, barely concealed cursing. “Just come in.”

Alfred comes in. Arthur is wrapped up in bed, sheets pulled high so that they conceal half his face, and Alfred feels a sudden wave of nostalgia wash over him. How long ago had it been that Arthur would come and find him like this in the mornings? How long ago had it been that Arthur towered over him, sat by his bedside whenever he was able?

Alfred sets the tea down on the nightstand. Pale morning light filters in through the windows, illuminating what’s visible of Arthur’s skin, making him radiant, beautiful, ethereal. Alfred had heard rumors and jests from the other nations that Arthur was magical, and in the picturesque morning light, Alfred believes it. He sits down on the bed, carefully angling himself so he does not have to come into direct contact with the older nation.

Arthur rolls over to look at him, eyes half-lidded, and something funny blooms in Alfred’s chest. It’s not a new feeling, just recent; this sort of thing never used to happen before. _It’s just Britain,_ thinks Alfred as Arthur rises out of the sheets, chest bare, scars out in the open. _Just Britain. You’ve known him for years._

Alfred can’t quite pinpoint when the change occurred, but he knows the feelings are complicated and new and altogether terrifying, and that he should ignore them.

There are dark circles beneath Arthur’s eyes. “America.”

Alfred resists the urge to touch the dark circles. Resists the urge to touch at all. “Britain.” A pause. “I made you tea.”

Arthur smiles and reaches towards the nightstand for the tea. He takes a sip. “You’re getting better.”

“I try,” says Alfred. “Rough night?”

“Rough life.”

Alfred tries to hide his concern and fails. Arthur had been getting weaker and smaller as of late. _Or am I just getting bigger?_ “You’re leaving today, right?”

Arthur nods, looking out the window. They are silent for a long time. He looks to Alfred out of the corner of his eye. “I know that look.”

Alfred looks down. “I don’t want you to go.” It’s a pitiful feeling, needy and gnawing--something _human_ and _personal._ Alfred is a budding nation, and already he’s heard from multiple older nations, even Britain himself, how hard it is to differentiate personal feelings from national feelings. The call of one’s people is stronger than the call of one’s heart, in the end, and recently, Alfred’s been feeling less opposed to Britain leaving--permanently--but on a personal level?

Alfred bites his lip. If he crosses that bridge, he can never go back.

Arthur finishes his tea, sets the cup down on the saucer and pushes it into Alfred’s hands. “You never change, do you? Even though you’re so big now…” Arthur reaches out to ruffle Alfred’s hair, and Alfred almost instinctively leans into the touch. Arthur stops. “Even though you’re so big now, you never want me to leave.”

“I miss you so much when you leave,” Alfred mumbles, almost inaudibly. Arthur smiles.

He leaves later that afternoon, and in his absence, Alfred’s people decide it’s best if he stays gone.

 

**now**

 

The hotel’s tea is complete shit, but it would have to do.   

The text from Matthew came at 4 in the morning, three hours before the meeting: “arthur was pretty wasted last night. Check up on him?” Alfred was up in record time, hair combed and suit spiffy, but he leaves his tie just the slightest bit loose, so Arthur won’t think he cares or some gay shit like that. (He cares so fucking much.)

Arthur’s room is several doors down the hall, and Alfred walks tentatively, nervous about waking people up, or worse, them seeing a cup of tea in his hands. Alfred swallows. Reaches Arthur’s door. Hesitates for what feels like minutes on end.

Something about this is oddly familiar, and while Alfred sifts through his memory, the door opens, revealing a shirtless Francis leaning against the door frame, sweating and looking altogether not fabulous at all. Alfred’s face changes, his grip on the tea a tad tighter. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out, and frustration silently boils inside of him. Regardless, Francis hears him loud and clear.

“Nothing happened, America,” says Francis, sounding exhausted, raking a hand through his tousled hair.

“Why the hell would I care?” Alfred snaps, then winces internally. Too aggressive. Francis chuckles, shaking his head.

“Oh, please. Stupid American.” Francis opens the door wider. “We just got a little too drunk. Do not worry. I woke up in the bathtub, Angleterre somehow got tangled in the curtains. Might want to try and get him out, oui?”

“We have a meeting in a few hours,” says Alfred, stupidly.

“Oui,” says Francis. He looks around the room and picks up a few of his things--his shirt, a tie, a croissant (what the hell was that doing on the floor, and why did he pick it up…?)--then moves past Alfred to stand in the hallway. “We do. So I have to go get ready. Bye!”

Francis turns on his heel and, with a flamboyant flip of the hair, he’s around the corner and out of sight. Alfred sighs and enters Arthur’s room, gently placing the tea down on the desk. As Francis said, Arthur is tangled up in the curtains, somehow still asleep. The room reeks of alcohol. Alfred goes back to the door, shuts it, then heads to the curtains. Half of Arthur is on the window sill, the other suspended in empty air, and Alfred spends several minutes untangling the curtains, annoyed and tired.

“What would you do without me,” he mumbles. “The hero. Always here to save your fuckin’ elderly ass.”

Arthur mumbles “Francis” sleepily into Alfred’s shoulder, and Alfred’s grip on the older nation instinctively tightens, nails digging into his skin, before Arthur adds “stupid fucking bitch frog”. Alfred relaxes his grip. Feels guilty. Thinks about kissing the tiny crescents of reddened skin his nails left behind. Resists.

He’s always been surprisingly good at that. Resistance.

The curtains come undone, and Arthur is only in boxers. Alfred remains unfazed, lays Arthur on the rumpled bedsheets gently, stares at him. It’s still plenty dark outside, but there’s enough light to see the shadows Arthur’s eyelashes cast against his cheeks, and the faded scars. War scars were always the biggest, and most of the lucky nations’ war scars had faded long ago. Most of Arthur’s fresh scars came from smaller conflicts, and Alfred finds some youthful, long forgotten part of him wanting to touch them all--

The door bursts open.

Francis comes in, trailed by Kiku.

The French nation grins. “I forgot my bag.” He heads towards the bathroom and emerges with his bag, which is, for some reason, soaking wet. Water drips down from the bag and onto the carpet. Francis sighs. “So much for my notes.”

Alfred grins for what seems like the first time all morning. “You take notes?”

Francis snorts back and exits with another flip of his long blonde hair. Kiku remains, standing awkwardly in the doorway, staring fixedly at Alfred and the unconscious Arthur Kirkland.

“Yo. Kiku. Can I help you?”

A pause. “Don’t be late to the meeting, you two,” Kiku says--and God it’s just the way he _says_ it with the barest hint of an innuendo--that sets Alfred’s face aflame.

“We won’t,” says Alfred. Arthur mumbles something else, entirely nonsensical. Kiku leaves.

 

**then**

 

If he’s late, he’ll never fucking forgive himself. Never ever _ever._

But he is. Shit. He’s so fucking late. Arthur’s in the tent wheezing and gasping and oh god, is that blood? Nations don’t bleed easily. Didn’t Arthur say that to him once before? Yes. Right. When Alfred fell off the roof of that barn that one time and came out of it unscathed. “Nations don’t bleed easily, love,” said Arthur with his comforting smile and sandy blonde hair and even at that young age Alfred’s mind had lingered far too long on the word _love._

Fuck, fuck. Stay focused.

Medics and nurses swarm him and tell him to stay back but he’s a _nation,_ god damn it, he can handle it, he can handle fucking anything. He goes to Arthur’s bedside and shit, nope, he cannot handle anything because he gags and steadies himself on one of the nurses before regaining his composure. Alfred removes the gloves from his hands, sets them down on the makeshift nightstand beside Arthur, holds his hand. It’s much softer than Alfred expected, especially in the midst of the war, and it brings back memories from so long ago, memories better left buried. _You used to be so big._

Alfred slips between country name and human name in desperation and doesn’t care that the humans around him are giving him weird looks. “Britain, Arthur, England, Artie-- _fuck_ \--I’m right here, right next to you,” murmurs Alfred. It becomes a mantra. Time passes. It gets quieter.

It’s always so odd, seeing a country in such a state of disrepair. Alfred’s younger than a lot of them, and maybe it’s because of that that he still can’t get used to seeing the other countries torn to pieces. They’re built differently than humans, sure, stronger and immune to most things that would instantly weaken a normal human body--but that’s probably why it bothers him so much. The first war, the Great War ( _what a shit name_ , thinks Alfred) had seen so many of them needlessly battered, and now this one?

Alfred had run into Feliciano a while ago. How long ago? Did it matter? Did he even know? Whatever. Feliciano had been captured yet again, what a surprise, but this time was different. This time, he cried and it wasn’t for pasta and it wasn’t for surrender--it was for _Ludwig_ , for Germany. Alfred had stayed behind to watch him, simultaneously troubled and fascinated by the tears.

“You okay?” Alfred had asked.

Feliciano shook his head. “It hurts.” He mumbled something softly in Italian that Alfred was certain was a curse.

“Careful,” Alfred chuckled, pulling up a chair to sit in front of the Italian’s bars. “You’ll start to sound like that brother of yours.”

Feliciano didn’t laugh.

“What hurts?” Alfred asked after a while. He’d never liked silence, probably something about being left alone in that huge house so much when he was younger. He especially didn’t like it coming from a happy-go-lucky nation like Italy.

“Someone left me,” said Feliciano after a while, back pressed to the bars, toying with his mangled blue uniform. When had it gotten so dirty? “A long time ago. I barely remember his face anymore, barely remember his voice. It was long ago, America. Back before even your time.”

Alfred felt weird, suddenly. Feliciano always acted so childish, so carefree--it was always unsettling to be reminded of just how old he really was.

“He left me so long ago, America. He was my first love and I was only a child but I felt it burning in my soul. I knew it to be love, however stupid that might sound.” Feliciano sighed. “Can you… can you even understand that?”

Alfred wasn’t certain where this was headed, but to his surprise, he found he did understand. He found himself remembering days of youthful repression, lingering touches, looking up and then looking down and despising the word ‘colony’ _. I miss you so much when you leave._

Feliciano took his silence and continued. “I love Germany,” he said, with a blunt simplicity that floored Alfred. “I love Germany and I do not want him to leave me like-- like what happened in my younger years.” His English slipped. His voice wavered. More frustrated Italian mumbling. “But… he is different now.”

Alfred scoffed, then immediately regretted it. “Yeah. We’ve noticed.”

Feliciano’s breathing sounded funny for a second. “It’s not his fault,” he muttered. “It is the people. It is the leader. You must know, America. You must know.”

Alfred thought of the Civil War. Nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

“I cannot tell you the number of times… Ludwig, his, his personal feelings… he does not want this. He cares. That is the Germany I love. And that Germany is leaving. He’s going far away. Just like…” A shaky pause. “He is different now. Angrier, more violent. And I am afraid that if this war goes on too long, he will stay that way.”

Alfred was silent for a long time. “Will you stay by his side? If he… if the old Germany… never comes back?”

“Yes,” said Feliciano, almost immediately.

“Why?”

“That is love,” murmured Feliciano. “You stay. Even if things are terrible and awful and you want to hold up a white flag and cry for pasta. You stay if someone needs your help. You don’t have to stay if it will hurt you too bad, but when you love someone, you care for them, and that makes it hard to walk away. You do your best to try and help them. You don’t give up on them. You try. You’re there.”

_Crash._

Alfred wakes up. One of the nurses had dropped something. He’s still at Arthur’s bedside, holding his hand. He looks better now, much better, but still pretty shitty.

“I love you so much,” Alfred says quietly. It feels like the most important sentence he’s ever said, and in years past, wars had concluded and commenced with his words, but still. Still. “I love you, Arthur. I loved you then and I love you now and…” Alfred paused. Fumbled. For someone who talked a whole fucking lot, he was absolute shit when it came to feelings.

“And I’m here. Right here. I always have been.”    

 

**now**

 

They’re not late.

Arthur’s got a massive hangover and Alfred won’t stop making fun of him for it, but they’re on time and the meeting starts with barely a hitch. Arthur’s taking diligent notes while Alfred shorthands, doodling every so often, tapping his pen when arguments break out. He looks over at Arthur, at his huge eyebrows and sandy blonde hair and the way he sighs in irritation, and once more drifts off to a place where he has the courage to kiss the shit out of him.

The meeting has once more been derailed, something about Yao and kittens, and Arthur appears fidgety.

Alfred nudges him. “You okay, dude?”

Arthur nods. “Yes.” A pause. “Thank you. For taking care of me this morning. You didn't have to do that much, make the tea and everything, but you did, and it was… kind of you.”

Alfred puffs out his chest, hopes his cheeks aren't too pink. “That's what heroes do!” It’s the usual line. He couldn’t imagine a full-fledged love confession going very well anyway--

Arthur’s face is tinted pink and he doesn't say anything more. The shade reminds Alfred of a time decades earlier, when they had both been into the Beatles and there was this concert and the sunset made Arthur’s cheeks glow pink, and God, was he gorgeous--

“America. America. Damn it, America, this question is for you!”

“You're fucking gorgeous,” says Alfred to Arthur, a little too loud, then realizes where he is. Not in the past, not in his topsy-turvy romanticized memories of Arthur--no, he was in the present, at a goddamn World Conference meeting, and… fuck. Fuck. What the fuck.

Ludwig looks pityingly at him. “America, the last question was directed at you.”

Arthur’s staring at him. Alfred can’t remember a time when he didn’t want Arthur staring at him. Look at me, look at me. I can lift this buffalo all by myself. I fell off the barn roof again. I grew so much, look Arthur, look, I’m taller than you. I’m bigger than you. I want to be independent of you. Look at me. I’m eating burgers again. My plan is stupid and unfeasible. Look at me, damn it. I love you. Look at me.

But now that he actually _is_ looking at him--and not only is he looking at him, he’s looking _into_ him, because this was the one thing he had that he was certain Arthur didn’t know about--he feels naked. Vulnerable.

Alfred finds he can't quite explain himself. He feels like a colony all over again, inadequate and unruly and hopelessly in love for the first time. “I didn’t mean it,” he says, stupidly.

“The hell do you mean, you didn’t mean it?” says Arthur, face red, sputtering.

“I mean… shit, Arthur, that’s not what I meant,” mutters Alfred. Fuck. All eyes are on him. Elizaveta and Kiku have pulled out their phones and shit. God. “I meant it. I just. You weren’t supposed to find out. Not now. Not then. Not ever.”

Arthur seems hinged on his every word. “Find out... what?”

Alfred hesitates. The crowd is too large. He sighs. Recomposes himself. This is it.“Let me show you.”

 

**then & now**

 

Alfred had pulled Arthur out of the World Conference room, much to Germany’s displeasure, and as he left, he thought he saw Italy smile and wave him off. He’d taken Arthur to his hotel room, where they stood and stared at each other for a lengthy amount of time before Alfred grew uncomfortable in the silence and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

And now, he sits and pulls out his phone. It’s big, the biggest, and Arthur makes fun of him for it (“can barely fit it in your pocket, can you?”), and Alfred grins and shakes his head and tells him to screw off. This is normal. This is home.

 “I have pictures,” says Alfred.

“Pictures? On your phone? Who’d have thought,” says Arthur, and Alfred kicks him. The Brit goes to sit beside him on the bed while Alfred fumbles with his phone, fingers trembling.

Arthur brushes the side of his cheek softly. “You’ve gone and hurt yourself.”

Alfred doesn’t turn, is afraid to. “Huh?”

Arthur’s finger brushes Alfred’s cheek more insistently “Here. Bit of a scar. Don’t tell me you’ve been doing that parkour again.”

Alfred chuckles, broad shoulders rumbling. “No, not recently. That might just be a national scar.” He takes his hand and puts it over Arthur’s, where the supposed scar on his cheek is. “You know how they just sort of… appear like that. We don’t really get much of a choice.”

Arthur is warm. He’s always been warm. The concern over his scar nearly propels Alfred back in time, to his colonial days, but he forces himself to stay rooted in the present.

“What did you want to show me?” asks Arthur.

Alfred breathes out. Doesn’t let go of Arthur’s hand, but doesn’t look at him, either. He pulls up the pictures. They’re all bundled up in one neat album, and he can’t ever delete them. They’re pictures of everything. The toy soldiers, the musket, the suit. Some old, browned photographs of them from the world wars. Letters exchanged. Concert tickets. Playbills. Years and years of history, of then, saved on his phone.

Now, Alfred talks. He talks and can’t stop talking. He talks about how he always wanted Arthur to notice him, how his personal and national feelings always felt so jumbled up, how sometimes he wasn’t even sure any part of him was remotely human. He talks about Italy and their conversation through the jail cell bars, and how happy he is that Germany managed to break the national hold. (“Me too,” mutters Arthur, one of the only things he says). He talks about being jealous, of Francis, of Kiku, of everyone. He talks about the tea. He talks about the scars. He talks about everything.

And in the end, he has to get up and grab a bottled water, he’s talked so much. When he returns, Arthur is still looking through all the pictures in his phone, sitting on the bed.

“You kept all of these things?” says Arthur.

“In the storage room, yeah,” says Alfred. “Couldn’t get rid of ‘em.”

Arthur looks up. His eyes are so green. Alfred always remembers the green, the green of the fields where he was spawned, the green of Arthur’s eyes. “Why?”

“Shit. I don’t know. I’m sentimental and old like you, I guess…”

“No, not that,” mutters Arthur. “All nations are sentimental. We live a thousand different lives and make a thousand different memories. I’m not surprised you can’t get rid of them at all. What I mean is…” He pauses. “Why… how does this connect to what you said in the conference room?”

Alfred stops. This is it. The water bottle is all out of water and he feels like the water he’s just swallowed should come up again and choke him. He moves. He goes to sit beside Arthur on the bed, takes his hand again, can’t look him in the eye.

“I love you,” he says. He’s shaking. “I’ve always loved you. I know I’m an asshole, I know I always was, but I always loved you and I’m sure it’s not a national feeling, it’s a personal feeling and I don’t know how to deal with it because you can’t feel the same way about me, I know you can’t, but it’s been eating me up all this time and Feliciano said you stay anyway, so I’ve always been here, I…”

Arthur stops him. Pulls him closer. Kisses him. Arthur’s lips are softer than Alfred can believe and it reminds him of that grimy tent back in World War II.

“What?” says Alfred.

Arthur kisses him again. And again. And soon Alfred is kissing back, pressing into him, desperate.

“What are you doing?” says Alfred.

“You’re an idiot,” says Arthur simply. “You’re a bloody idiot.”

Alfred’s eyes widen. “You mean…”

“I’m here,” says Arthur, taking Alfred’s hand and placing it on his chest, where his heart is. It beats. It’s racing. “You’re an asshole, but I’m here, and I love you, too.”

Alfred can’t remember being any happier.

 

\---------------------

 

Elizaveta, Kiku, and Francis planted cameras in Arthur and Alfred’s rooms. It was bound to happen eventually, was their logic. There were DVD copies made and distributed at the next world conference meeting. Alfred bought one.

 

Arthur declared war.

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  

  
  
  


  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you once again for taking your time to read this. Have a great day!


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